


Come On, Rip My Clothes Off

by Moonlights_Inkwell



Series: The Bard and Little Miss [8]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, It's porn, Joke about foot fetish, Modern AU, PWP without Porn, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, i dunno dude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:48:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27576083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlights_Inkwell/pseuds/Moonlights_Inkwell
Summary: When your boyfriend told you he was dropping out of university to start a band, you expected a lot of things. This? This isn't one of them.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Series: The Bard and Little Miss [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907491
Kudos: 13





	Come On, Rip My Clothes Off

**Author's Note:**

> Really, I have no excuse for this one. It’s straight up some mindless smut, but like. Modern. It was a good enough distraction from the like... 3 unfinished serieses I have. Rip. It’s modern and junk, but I’m still seeing this reader as the same as the one in the rest of my fics. Enjoy the smut.

When your boyfriend said he was dropping out of university to start a band you expected a few things. One was moving out of your flat to find a smaller one that would be easier to afford on one pay check. Another was to spend too many nights hanging about in dive bars to listen to him strum away at that guitar, listening to honeyed words and watching ringed fingers move over the frets at speeds while trying not to focus on the silly Bart Simpson sticker in the lower corner. The thing you expected the least, however, is exactly what's happening to you now: being fingered in the back of a tour bus. 

The tour bus itself you probably could have guessed. Jaskier is overwhelmingly talented, you knew he would do well with music, even if his stupid song about his weird best friend hadn't gone viral and ended up on Billboard's Hot 100. The fingering too was always on the cards, but the two together? No. You never would have assumed that was on the cards. It seemed too much like something from one of those tabloid magazines piled up by the self-checkout in any store, kinda fantastical and something that happens to other people, not you. You work in a bar between classes, and girls like you don’t have this happen to you, but it’s happening none the less. It’s dizzying, but not as dizzying as his fingers are. 

His fingers, stupidly talented fingers, are moving at such a lazy pace you could cry, alternating between crooking and scissoring the digits as if you both have all the time in the world. You guess you do. It was a good show, and his hand is moving at a pace that would make that clear even if you hadn’t been watching the whole thing. He takes his time after shows where everything goes as they should, still riding the high of screams of his name. Thrusting and spreading fingers, moving and searching for your g-spot, have you trying to cover your mouth, but he pulls your hand away with his free one to press sweet kisses to your palm. A jacket, gaudy and dyed a mint green with pins and badges along the lapels, is on the floor at your feet; it had served as a pathetic attempt to at least vaguely mask what is going on between the two of you while Geralt had been searching for his own jacket before going to meet his not-quite-girlfriend. He had figured out what had been going on, you suppose, seeing as he had made a sharpish exit after you had moaned but Jaskier had pushed his tongue into your mouth by that point, and maybe he just thought the two of you were very into kissing. It wouldn’t be the first time it had ever happened. Performer that he is, Jaskier's got an exhibition kink a mile wide, one you know all too well. 

First year, when he was dorming with a prick called Valdo Marx, Jaskier made it his mission in life to make you cum until you screamed every time you had sex. Second year had seen you and him fucking in the untouched music theory section of the Oxenfurt library so often that you’re still surprised you weren’t caught. But those were different; you hadn’t given a shit about if Valdo Marx knew that Jaskier could make you cum six times in one night and knew there were no cameras in the dingy third floor corner that housed music books that no one ever came looking for. Here though? Here is something completely different. Even with the tour bus being empty you feel far too exposed. 

“God, Little Miss, you’re fuckin' soaked.” He sighs out, rubbing the heel of his palm into your clit leisurely. You are. Each ministration of his fingers has a soft moan coming from you. He’s grinning, ocean-eyes glittering at the sight of what he's doing to you, and you don’t know if you want to kiss or kill him. “You really must have liked the show.” You did, but that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t even the show you had enjoyed, not really, it was the sight of Jaskier strutting about on stage: glowing from the pure joy of performing, winking in your direction with every song, the gruff way his voice turned to a growl in songs about your sex life. He’s a god, an idiot and everything in-between, and you have absolutely no idea what the fuck you must have done in a past life to deserve him. 

“Fuck off, Julian.” Is all you can manage in response before another moan is torn from you, muffled by you biting your lip. You don’t need to be quiet, not now, all of his band mates and security have long since left the bus, but still you’re determined to be quiet. 

Quiet infuriates him. He cannot stand the quiet, you think it’s the musician in him that just can’t let the quiet be, he spends so much time making noises with his hands- drawing beautiful sounds from every instrument he ever touches. Being silent is rebellion, to encourage him to try harder, so he does. A hand, soft but firm, pushes you onto your back- and when you glance to him, he’s smirking down at you, like how a dog eyes a steak before devouring it. The look would be enough to make a weaker woman worried, but you know it all too well, know those cornflower eyes and the path they always take from your own eyes to your tits and then down to your cunt, how to roaming of his eyes has his pupils growing wider and darker. Feral. Your thighs are pushed up without warning, pressed into your stomach while those clever fingers are tugging your jeans and panties down so he can see you fully. A gentle breeze passes across your soaked slit, which makes you shiver and Jaskier grin. The position is not the most comfortable in the world, but it’s worth it when you hear the weak moan that comes from the man leering over you; dazed and grinning at the sight of your soaked sex. 

“Melitele's tits, Dear Heart, you’re fucking beautiful.” 

“Flatterer.” 

“No, just a man with eyes.” He smiles and thrusts his fingers back into you, struggling to remove your jeans with one hand. “A man lucky enough to have you, Little Miss.” 

He’s forgotten your shoes, the muttered curses he lets out when he gets your clothes down to your ankles makes it obvious and you laugh. Of course, he did. Of fucking course he forgot about your shoes. He’s been all over you from the moment he got off stage, but now he’s found an obstacle, and it was entirely because he didn’t give you a second to kick off your boots. 

The laughter dies on your tongue though when he slaps your thigh playfully. He’s trying to look indignant, but you can see the smile in his eyes even if it doesn’t quite reach his lips yet. It isn’t enough power to hurt, but it is enough to make you stop laughing and smile up at him. 

“Are you laughing at me, Little Miss?” 

“I don’t know. Did you forget I had shoes on?” 

He flushes at that, gnawing at his bottom lip before thrusting a finger towards your face as fingers inside of you crook; drawing out a loud moan both from shock and pleasure. 

“Sorry I care more about making you cum than I do about you having shoes on. It would be weirder if I spent my time staring at your feet, don’t you think?” 

He’s right, but you just moan again and grab at his wrist. Crooking fingers finally hit that spot deep within you, your thighs shake and eyes roll back slightly. 

“There she is.” Jaskier coos, and you feel your boots be pulled from your feet, one by one, followed finally by your pants. “You close, Dear Heart?” 

“Yes...” 

“Oh I know, darling. I can feel you, you’re so fucking tight.” He leans over you and presses his lips to the crook of your neck. “Do you wish it was my cock, Little Miss? My cock just slamming into you while you grip me so fucking tight.” How his words are enough to have you teetering on the brink of oblivion is confusing but you can’t afford it any thought, no all you can do is chase his fingers with your hips, desperately trying to reach that perfect, blissful high. “I wish it was too, Dear Heart.” 

“Jaskier-" 

“Or my mouth on you. You always did say I had a smart mouth. Could just lie down and let you just... use my mouth until you cum, so I can flip you over and make you cum, over. And over again.” 

His fingers slow slightly, but there's so much more power in the thrusts now, clearly trying to send you over the edge. He’s hitting your g-spot over, and over, unyielding and unwavering. You’re close. So close, just a little more is all you need. For him to just duck his head down, lather his tongue across your clit and show you how that little death feels once more but... 

He stops. 

“Jaskier!” You almost shout at him, moving towards him only for him to grasp the back of your head and kiss you- bypassing any nicety to push his tongue into your mouth and tugging you onto his lap. Cold, rough denim drags across your naked sex, and you remember suddenly how naked you are in comparison to him. 

“I want you to cum on my tongue or on my cock.” 

It’s going to be a long night.


End file.
